


Between the two of us

by most_curiously_blue_eyes



Series: The peculiar behaviours of Valar and Maiar in their natural habitat [3]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Eönwë angsts a lot, Eönwë/Melkor is main, M/M, Melkor talks a lot, all the rest is mentioned or implied, no worries Varda and Yavanna are A-okay with that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-21
Updated: 2017-10-21
Packaged: 2019-01-20 21:49:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12442494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/most_curiously_blue_eyes/pseuds/most_curiously_blue_eyes
Summary: The beginnings are always tough. A past of enmity is not easily forgotten, especially when rivalry over someone's affections remains in the wake of that old war. Bonded or not, Melkor and Eönwë are going to have to learn to cooperate sooner or later if they want to make their relationship with Mairon – and with one another – to work.Meanwhile, life goes on as usual in the Blessed Lands.





	Between the two of us

**Author's Note:**

> So years ago when I first posted the series xD someone requested a friendship between Eonwe and Thuringwethil and I thought sure, why not, they have so much in common! Like... they both have wings! They can fly! Also, insufferable Melkor. So yes.   
> (But really the whole fic is an excuse to write porn. As always. Eonwe deserves some good sex too okay.)

'Put that tongue anywhere near me and I _will_ cut it off,' Eönwë warns darkly, attempting rather fruitlessly to wiggle out of the dark Vala's reach. Backed against the wall, he glares at Melkor who appears incredibly pleased with himself despite also looking rather silly with his tongue hanging from his mouth as if poised for an attack. A sheer layer of faintly green, disgusting goo covers the tongue, some kind of a herbal ointment for burns – and what kind of a fool gets himself an actual burn in such a place anyway! - and Melkor deliberately waggles his tongue as though in an attempt to lick Eönwë's face. There is no way out of this situation, the Maia realizes; he is caged within the dark Vala's grasp, encircled by Melkor's strong arms: the same muscular arms which would hold much larger an appeal were they not attached to a mountain of arrogance and cockiness and a sense of humour befitting of a slimy creature living under a rock.

There is only one solution to this mess, one Eönwë must employ immediately if he is to arrive on time to the Council meeting. He closes his eyes in order to gather some resolve and fight down the tremors of disgust at what he has to do – and before Melkor realizes what is going on, Eönwë swiftly leans up, looks straight into the dark Vala's eyes, smiles seductively, licks his lips-

Then he clamps his teeth hard on Melkor's tongue in a ruthless bite and flees when the dark Vala recoils with a deliciously high-pitched scream.

 

The bitter after-taste of the ointment remains in Eönwë's mouth for the entirety of the meeting, enhanced and kept there, he believes, by the power of Melkor's grudge. It makes everyone look at him funny, he supposes, because it is impossible to turn his expression from becoming sour when such unpleasantness fills his mouth and refuses to leave despite the nuts and raisins Eönwë tries to inconspicuously nibble on during the proceedings of the Council. Everything tastes of unsweetened herbs, the flavour somewhat mellowed and all the more sickening because of it, as though Eönwë's mouth were filled with water left over from somebody else's dental cleanse. The mild bitterness corrupts the sweetness of almonds and makes the sourness of raisins especially difficult to stomach.

He is rather certain that the vision a self-satisfied Melkor which afflicts his mind during Lord Manwë's rather extensive praise of the forge-workers and their labour on the light ships, the image of that smug, unbearable grin he sees in his mind, is a reflection of the reality. Of course the dark Vala finds Eönwë's suffering a happy circumstance. His vile nature demands it: and oh, if only anyone believed Eönwë when he tells them how evil indeed is the allegedly reformed enemy, how the only arguably redeeming quality of his is his unfair physical attractiveness! Which, admittedly, Eönwë does not mention to his peers in fear of not being taken seriously for it.

He is not so blind not to find Melkor incredibly alluring in the aesthetic sense. The physical body the dark Vala has created for himself is a picture of perfection, matched in majestic appeal perhaps only by the form of Lord Manwë; although in the privacy of his mind, Eönwë admits to himself he allows this contest only out of loyalty to his Master. It is not that Lord Manwë is less beautiful in any sense: his features perfectly reflect the dark Vala's in reversed colour, their build is much the same, their aura of might similarly alluring. Yet Lord Manwë is not attractive to Eönwë's eyes, not in such a manner as the dark Vala. Perhaps it lies in the little details about their looks which differ greatly: Melkor's unique ever-changing eyes, the sharpness of his gaze, the way he licks his lips and they glisten so, the pattern of lighter scars on the pale skin of his back which he himself is to blame for, because the dark Vala is incredibly prone to getting into trouble he can barely get out of in time.

It is unfair that such physical allure comes paired with a spirit Eönwë is ashamed to admit to hating. Boastful and proud, selfish and deceitful and greedy, always up to causing mischief; Melkor knows no shame nor reason, he only knows to destroy and to take, and-

'Unless you stop frowning to your thoughts, they are bound to notice how far your mind strays off of the subject of the meeting,' Thuringwethil whispers to him in confidence, effectively drawing Eönwë's attention away from the musings he was entertaining.

The addition of Melkor's messenger to the folk frequenting the Council gatherings is a recent development brought into place after it became quite clear the dark Vala has never even considered gracing them with his presence unless it were to his benefit. Since important matters are often discussed at meetings, a need arose for a representative to the dark Vala's interests. Langon, Melkor's herald, declined the offer to join the Council about as politely as one would expect of a heathen dwelling among dark beasts, and Thuringwethil came in his stead, sat to Eönwë's right: he supposes so that he may keep an eye on her. She is rather a good replacement in Eönwë's opinion, preferable to her master in that she is attentive and silent throughout the meetings, and mindful of her own business.

Until now, that is. 'I thank you for the warning, but I would that you paid attention to Lord Manwë's speech rather than my face,' Eönwë whispers back, schooling his features into a neutral expression.

Thuringwethil just grins at him. Her teeth are abnormally sharp and her eyes have a dangerous glint. Like all those corrupted by Melkor, she has something unnatural about her, as though twisted from the way she was intended. Eönwë does not like her.

She reminds him of what Mairon was like at one time, driven by anger and fear and hopelessness: her thoughts are concealed beyond a dark veil and her eyes are sharp like her fangs. But in her the corruption is permanent and consensual, so much so that only in this corruption is she able to remain true to herself - and through that, she is all the more terrifying.

All of a sudden, Eönwë wonders how Mairon is faring. The labour at the forges is at such a stage that none really leave to find rest, and he has not seen Mairon in days if not weeks. Soon enough, he thinks, soon enough they will meet one another again; the Beacon is to be completed so very soon, and once Mairon's responsibilities in the forges are concluded, surely he will seek Eönwë out...

Unless he finds his way to Melkor's arms first, instead, and forgets all about Eönwë once he is caught up in the dark Vala's charms. After all, they are married to one another: Mairon is Melkor's as Melkor is Mairon's. And Eönwë, he is just an unnecessary addition to their relationship, the odd one out, reeled inside only by the dark Vala's greedy whim. He cannot contend with the love between them; even though he held Mairon's love first, or at least some measure of Mairon's regard, it was never the overwhelming bright flame of emotion, the burning devotion which seems to connect Mairon to Melkor. How could he hope to win against that?...

He swallows down the bitter after-taste in his mouth and locks his gaze in the surface of the grand table. The white marble is polished to give off a shine, not a speck of dirt marring the purity of the stone. Eönwë thinks he would like nothing more than to soil it, destroy it irrevocably so that nobody ever looks upon it and sees perfection-

If he sucked and bit on Melkor's skin, would the bruises stain the paleness of his skin or disappear at once?... Not that he has any desire to do so.

No, he has no desire to once more behold the magnificent sight of the self-proclaimed _mightiest of the Valar_ deemed incoherent and helpless by pleasure; he has no desire whatsoever to hold Melkor down and ride him at an almost unbearably slow pace, heedless of the pleas that would doubtlessly fall from the dark Vala's sensual lips. He has no desire at all to use Melkor's body for his own pleasure, without granting the same gratification to the dark Vala for _hours_ , until Melkor is desperate and shameless in his begging, until-

But by the Flame Imperishable, he can no sooner rid himself of the sinful thoughts than of the magically induced herbal taste in his mouth.

'Are you quite done, Manwë?' Asks Lord Aulë all of a sudden in an impatient voice so booming it draws Eönwë's attention away from impure fantasies. The lines of Eönwë's markings grow slightly warmer at the diversion, as though reflecting Lord Manwë's agitation with the rude interruption – or is it excitement? The two have been hard to discern, masked by his Lord's doing for his own good, but surely Lord Aulë's impunity is grounds for anger and not for a surge of... something quite different, something Eönwë finds troubling. Something alarmingly similar to his own unwanted feelings.

'And here they go again,' says Lady Varda, rolling her eyes to the heavens when Lord Manwë huffs and angrily retorts with accusations of insubordination and warnings of consequences.

Lady Yavanna giggles and shakes her head. 'We might as well clear away from here, lest the more innocent of us witness an unbecoming scene,' she says in a voice which sounds like it was supposed to be a whisper, but is very pointedly not.

Lord Manwë glares at both Valier, but there is no genuine ire within him: Eönwë can tell from the way his markings are thrumming eagerly, as though his Master were on the brink of receiving a most anxiously awaited treat.

'They are going to fuck,' Thuringwethil states unnecessarily, the amusement in her voice making it ring in Eönwë's ears to the tone of mockery. He slaps a hand across her mouth to silence any more impudent words she may spew; she does not even fight him, other than licking the palm of his hand. Eönwë lets her go at that because he is ticklish, but Thuringwethil gets no chance to speak further nonsense: Lady Varda announces the council meeting adjourned and everybody starts to leave.

The markings grow impossibly hotter, thrum momentarily with a nigh-maddening wave of – _yes, please, too long have I been bereft –_ and then the connection abruptly cuts off, hopefully because his Master decided to spare Eönwë's sanity at this time and not because Lord Manwë is unable to keep it up while he is busy with other... activities.

There is not a place Eönwë wants to go more than to the forges, even though he realizes that Mairon would find his presence there a bother. Immersed in his work, the other Maia is especially harsh whenever anyone deigns to pull him away from the creative labour he is so passionate about. There is little that matters more to Mairon than his duties, and while Eönwë likes to believe himself counted among that little, he also knows not to push his luck. Lately, due to the intermingling layers of responsibility and exhaustion, Mairon's ire is easily earned and much less easily dissolved.

'With the amount of thoughts in your feathery brain, it is a wonder your pretty head has not yet burst,' Thuringwethil teases as she follows him down the wide halls for reasons only she might know.

'There are no feathers in my brain,' Eönwë quips, then grimaces when she laughs at him.

'If not feathers, what else then? Surely your mind is not on the Ship nor the Beacon, since you paid so little attention to what your Master said about either,' the dark Maia points out. Her eyes of ruby hues are gleaming playfully. She is clearly having fun on Eönwë's account, although her reasons remain unknown. 'Let me guess: entwined as your fate has been with my whimsical Lord, surely your preoccupation must be with him also. Has he been giving you grief?'

'Why not ask him?' Eönwë mutters and takes off in order to flee her by riding on the wind currents. But Thuringwethil is relentless and her wings, albeit different from his own in shape and texture, are no less efficient in the skies. She follows easily and Eönwë cannot lose her even the midst of the clouds which wrap tightly around the peaks of the mountains. Eventually he just gives up and waits for her to join him, perched on the rocks near to where Thorondor's people have their nests but not close enough to disturb their young. Thuringwethil lands by his side and grins. Her sharp teeth remind Eönwë of Melkor's and he wonders if all who associate with the dark Vala become twisted to his image. With unease settling heavy in his stomach, he hopes Mairon will avoid such fate. Such sharpness of teeth would likely not become him at all.

'I am not an enemy to you,' Thuringwethil informs him playfully.

'That remains to be seen,' Eönwë counters drily. 'For all I know, your Master may well be deceiving everyone into docility so that he may take over Arda all the easier.'

'Some hope this to be the case,' the dark Maia admits, 'although I sincerely doubt it. That would require a certain wickedness of character, you see, and while certainly my Lord is unstable and unpredictable, even you must have noticed that there is not a shred of malice in his entire being.'

'No,' Eönwë agrees, 'there is no malice. But no benevolence all the same.'

'That is true,' says Thuringwethil. 'I doubt he understands the concept of either of the two. His nature is that of disorder and chaos, so often mistaken by your kin for evil. But tell me, then: if all which my Master created is evil, is the cheese your kin enjoy consuming also evil? Without the fermentation Lord Melkor brought along, there would be no cheese nor cream, no wine and no vinegar. Are all of those evil?'

'Some good does come from fermentation, but the point of it is to spoil!' Eönwë protests. 'Cheese is not evil, but what about mould and rot, what about the pungent stench of decay, what of the sickness born of necrotic tissue?'

'What of the endless Spring of Almaren, of the restless abundant life which neither ends nor moves forward, as if trapped within the same moment for eternity? Trees which bloom and give fruit and are then forced to bloom again, enslaved to this cycle without words to protect themselves, what of them? What of the enforced cheer of this island, enslaved in a pretence of invulnerable happiness – are you not all simple slaves here, sworn to tasks you do not comprehend and to contentment you do not, in fact, even feel?'

'Stop!' Eönwë protests, rising his voice in barely suppressed wrath. 'Words such as those, such lies! There is no truth to the allegation that anyone is enslaved in these Blessed Lands, and by whom would we be so enslaved?'

'And yet you cannot deny that you are not happy,' Thuringwethil says sharply. 'You think it is well hidden, but the reality is clear for everyone with eyes to see. Even if the entire island is perfectly happy in their little sick paradise, you yourself are not.'

'You know nothing about me,' hisses Eönwë.

Thuringwethil holds his wrist to stop him from taking off. 'I know precious little, yes. But I know my Lord, and I know he will not care for your well-being. He has all that he could ever desire: his beloved, precious flame; his House and his brother's regard. You do not fit in, do you? You are but a toy for his additional amusement. What will happen when he grows bored of you?...'

'What is it you even want? I cannot compete with your Master for Mairon's attention nor for my Lord's love. What do you aim for when you antagonize me so?' Asks Eönwë, looking away.

Finally, Thuringwethil laughs. 'Does everything in your world happen for a reason?' She counters. Surprisingly, the enmity is gone from her. Even the aura coming from her appears much more peaceful now. Much more serene. 'In my world,' she continues, smiling, 'in my world we do whatever we want. There is no other goal, no other reasoning behind our actions but that we want to perform them. The ultimate freedom of choice belongs to us, my friend: we act of our free will alone, and if in your eyes it makes us all evil, so be it. But do not lie that you do not desire to do the same. Do not lie that you are not like us. You carry my Lord's mark upon your soul, whether you realize it or not. You are more like us than you are like your high and proper brethren.'

'I have no mark of his!' Eönwë exclaims and flees, tearing his arm out of her grasp.

 

He gags on the bitter after-taste in his mouth. His wings are no good, they only carry him as far as to land in an ungraceful heap at the foot of the mountain. He is alone, she does not follow. He heaves violently, but nothing comes up; his throat is dry but his eyes are wet. He is not crying, but he is not _not_ crying either. There is something very wrong with the way his soul feels, as though there were a sickness devouring it, as though an unnatural corruption were twisting it into a foreign shape-

'Now, what is all this drama about?' Asks Melkor in a voice of utter amusement. Eönwë wastes no time wondering where the dark Vala came from; instead he follows his first instinct – and leaps at him. The blade of whirlwind in his grasp cuts the air with a howl, but Melkor stops the blow effortlessly, erecting a shield of dust about him more effective than were it metal. Eönwë growls and makes to attack again, unleashing all of his fear, anger and insecurity in one violent outburst. Again, the dark Vala is not threatened. With one hand he catches Eönwë by the wrist and, in spite of his outraged scream, all but drags him into an embrace. Be it for the similarity of his physique to that of Lord Manwë, or maybe for the sheer might which rolls off of him in calming waves; regardless of the reason, Eönwë feels the bloodlust drained out of him to naught, leaving him empty. Exhaustion takes him and he sags against the dark Vala's chest, defeated and unwilling to speak of his loss.

'Would it feel better if I allowed you to hurt me?' Asks Melkor softly.

He sounds genuine, he sounds... uncertain, as if he really is considering letting a mere Maia harm him just to help his foul mood brighten. Humourlessly, Eönwë chuckles and looks up at him.

'I think not,' he says sincerely. 'If you ceased to exist, perhaps, or never existed in the first place; but as you remain real before me, it shall not feel better.'

'Such gloomy words are a poor match to your pretty face,' Melkor tells him and brushes away a strand of hair obscuring Eönwë's view of him. 'Come now. Let us spar or throw insults at one another, or else make merry and dance. Your spirits may yet be lifted, how can you know?'

'I have no wish for your company in either of those activities,' protests Eönwë, but the dark Vala dismisses it with a shake of his head.

'You shall have it whether you wish for it or not; I have no intention to leave you all alone with those unpleasant thoughts whirring around and clouding your mind. Regretful choices come out of such ideas,' he says, the amusement gone from his tone for once.

Eönwë straightens in his embrace. 'You would know about bad choices,' he accuses softly.

Unperturbed, Melkor does not deny it. 'My brother mourned the loss of me,' he says, 'even when I still roamed the lands. My choices brought him this grief.'

'Yet you would not change for him,' Eönwë observes, allowing bitterness into his voice once more. 'He begged your return, he promised more than you deserved just to see you back by his side. You responded with deceit and death and decay. Until Mairon, you never even thought about it, did you? Peace.'

Melkor takes a moment to reply. While he thinks, Eönwë allows himself to remain perfectly still in the dark Vala's embrace. He listens to the thrumming reverberating from within Melkor's spirit, irregular and disarrayed, but yet so attuned to his own spirit's patterns. So calming, so disgustingly familiar, so wretchedly precious: this harmony he finds within the discord of their unwilling union makes Eönwë's entire being hurt. He does not want to desire the dark one with such powerful greed, he does not want those wicked feelings swallowing his righteousness, but without Mairon there to contain all of his love, Eönwë is weak. So he listens to the heartbeat of chaos within Melkor's soul and tries to think of nothing.

A sigh escapes him when Melkor releases him from his arms. The dark Vala looks upon him with a fondness which is difficult to miss even if he wishes not to see it.

'I never considered peace because I did not believe myself wrong,' Melkor says and Eönwë narrows his eyes, opens his mouth to interrupt. 'No, do not speak. Let me explain,' requests the dark Vala and moves as if to walk away. After a step, he motions for Eönwë to follow. Eönwë does.

'The first memory I recall which is truly mine and nobody else's is of emptiness,' Melkor begins. 'Not around me, although for a while yet there was to be nothing but the One and myself; but within me, there was a void unfilled by the consciousness I slowly acquired. There was no sense of self in what was to become me, not yet, but already the idea of me was lacking: imperfect, incomplete, _broken_. For centuries and eternities, as others came to existence around me, I looked for that which would fill that void. I learned of things darker than darkness as I learned of light brighter than any other. In knowledge, I found no relief. In isolation, I found but more grief.

'Then my twin came to me as I mourned the loss of a part of me in a far off corner of nothingness. In my search before, I ignored the others, even him who followed me into existence so swiftly; and he spoke to me in a manner of that time. He said, _I searched for you for so long,_ and I became aware. He said, _You are what has been missing_ , and I knew he was right, and that he was what I had been missing too.'

He pauses in his steps. Sighs, then starts to walk again. The grass he sets his feet on breaks under the weight of his physical form, but instantly straightens when he moves forward. Forced to an endless cycle of rebirth, restless in life without the sweet relief of sleep.

'I did not accept the answer he offered,' Melkor says and smiles. 'I told him I needed not his presence and the more I claimed so, the more I believed it for the truth. I asked that he not bother me and I fled when he would not accept my choice. To all this, our Father said nothing.

'I sought more knowledge in hopes it would replace the twin I did not wish to love. Instead, what replaced him was much more vile: a hunger for more, a greed, an insatiable need to possess everything which could make me forget about the _nothing_ I carried inside of my very self. But then came the Music, powerful and wondrous and insurmountable: and to me, so disappointingly bleak. Because I knew then that the part of me which was missing loved the Music as it was conceived by our Father: I saw it in the glowing spirit of my twin. I thought there was no manner in which I could love it as well, so I spun my Discord and let it be known, and so many followed it, and I found what I believed I was looking for.'

Eönwë looks at him and is surprised to see the sadness in the dark Vala's face. To this day, he was convinced Melkor was proud of the accomplishments his Fall has wrought. Here, in the great canyon beneath the mountains, below where any creatures dwell, he is finally learning the truth.

'You let your Discord replace your brother,' he whispers, then gasps softly when Melkor takes hold of his hand. Yet he does not attempt to free his hand: if the contact offers as much comfort to the dark Vala as it does himself, he is content to let it last.

'I let the Discord replace more than just him. I believed I lost the love of our Father and so I sought to gain it back, but in my arrogance I thought it could only be done if I outdo all others. My labour in Arda was no less than your people's, Eönwë,' Melkor claims. 'Where you concentrated your efforts first on the island, I sought to make mine as wide-spread as my power would allow me. I made mountains grow from within the earth and tectonic plates break and drift away. I forced lands to rise and fall and I filled ravines with waters for others to claim as their own. I felled constructs of stone and iron, buried them deep within the earth, close to the core where the Song could feed their magicks. And I thought I was where I needed to be.

'My twin brother came to me twice more after that first time. Twice more I sent him away. Then, to make certain he would not bother me anymore, I came to this blessed island of his – and saw Mairon.'

Once more Melkor pauses, then he sinks down to lay down on the grass and pulls Eönwë to rest on top of him. Eönwë makes a noise of protest which dies on his lips when Melkor smiles at him: the same expression he thought reserved for Mairon, the gentle look in his eyes which speaks of his fondness.

'At first I thought to possess him like I longed to possess everything. But he rejected me, even though there was so much of my Discord in his weak little spirit. I knew instantly why that was: you. He had you, who belonged to my twin brother. It made me furious. In my mind, my brother stole him from me. I did not even consider Mairon a separate sentient being, or you for that matter. Everything I wanted was property to me.'

'Lord Manwë said as much,' Eönwë mutters, voice slightly muffled by Melkor's chest he is nestled against. 'He was the opposite; he considered us Maiar sentient, self-conscious beings before we actually became so. It was difficult to grow into independence when we had no instruction on how to do so. Some of us learned it, like Mairon. Others... I did not. I became my own person because I depended on him.'

'That is not true,' Melkor chides and strokes his messy hair. 'You are not a follower, Eönwë. You are not a mindless minion, quite the opposite. I think you are a leader, indeed. You stand by your convictions against what you perceive as evil, do you not? You stand by your hatred of me because you still believe me corrupt.'

'… I only wish I did,' Eönwë says wistfully. Then, he voices a thought he has had for a while now: 'Are you whole now? Did you reconcile with my Lord?'

Melkor hesitates before he replies. 'It may be too late for that,' he finally says. Eönwë senses the spike of sorrow in the thrumming of his spirit. His first reaction is to offer comfort with his own and an immense sense of relief and acceptance and _love_ surrounds him before he withdraws. Then, _disappointment_ , but only for a brief moment it takes him to reposition himself on top of Melkor, to lean in and kiss him.

The hand running through his hair tightens and Eönwë gasps, then moans softly when the dark Vala takes advantage of that to deepen the kiss. The taste of bitter herbs which lingered on his tongue before is gone, replaced by something darker, something sweeter: like cocoa seeds and coffee grains, like tea brewed at dawn on the first day of Spring, like coal residue after the bonfire in celebration of Summer, like the first night of Winter. He kisses in a manner which should feel oppressive: hungry and demanding and nigh-painful, but instead it feels desperate, as though asking, no, begging for permission which Eönwë grants all too eagerly. He allows Melkor to change their position so that he is pinned to the ground by the dark Vala's bulk and he spreads his thighs so that Melkor can fit between them; the contact, even through layers of clothing, makes his head spin with how strongly he desires the dark Vala.

'Please, please,' he whispers hotly against Melkor's lips and presses against him. Hot, hot, he feels so hot, he needs the dark one's cool hands on his skin, he needs. But Melkor withdraws, sits up, does not let Eönwë pull him back; before Eönwë can doubt himself, Melkor strips himself of his tunic and helps him to sit up as well.

'Your wings,' he says, voice a low rumble. 'Show me. I want,' he does not finish, but Eönwë thinks he understands.

He does not need to concentrate to make them visible, because to him it is as natural as simply _existing_. Yet Melkor looks at his wings as though they were a wonder, as though Eönwë were a wonder for having them, and he touches the base of one with trembling fingertips. And Eönwë, oh, he arches into the touch which feels like both fire and ice all at once, like a caress and a torture, pain and pleasure of it mixing into something exquisite and breathless and exhilarating. Melkor groans and kisses him once more, pulls him close so that he kneels in Melkor's embrace, and disrobes him as hastily as his shaky hands allow. Eönwë is all too eager to respond to him, draws him into the embrace of his arms and his wings, tangles his hands in Melkor's smooth hair and kisses back with the same passion. So good, he feels so good, but not enough, it is not enough; he needs, or he wants, or he _desires_ so much more.

'Take me,' he whispers against Melkor's lips. Melkor's large hands rest on his hips for a brief moment before they move lower to grope and massage his buttocks and Eönwë sighs softly, pushing back into the touch. He hisses when a cold dry finger breaches him and Melkor mutters a barely verbal apology against his shoulder. The finger is withdrawn and he feels more than he hears an enchantment ripple the canvas of the world, the power of the Vala's magic thrumming like a heartbeat; when he is breached again, it is wet and slick and warmer and Eönwë moans in satisfaction. Melkor kisses him again, thrusts his tongue in his mouth as he fingers him slowly; and Eönwë cannot help but move his hips to sink down onto the finger, hoping to get more, to feel more, oh, so good-

'So greedy,' says Melkor, chuckles in amusement and then groans when Eönwë bites his lower lip in retaliation. 'Oh, yes, so greedy for me,' the dark Vala whispers and then removes his finger as though in punishment. Eönwë tries to bit him again, but Melkor forces him into a kiss instead. Then, when Eönwë makes a tiny noise of frustration in the back of his throat, Melkor grabs his hips and pushes to impale him on his cock.

Eönwë is unable to hold back the scream which Melkor steals with his mouth; the initial pain of the penetration is nothing compared to the sensation of being filled so and the Maia is impatient to start moving even though Melkor is attempting to hold him in place. No; he does not want to adjust to this, he wants more, he needs, so he rises up and sinks back down, then again, and again and once more. He looks at Melkor and starts at the adoration so clear in the dark Vala's eyes; black, black like the Void itself, they hold him captive and Eönwë cannot escape, does not want to escape, he is enslaved-

'I love you,' he cries like a prayer or like a plea, or maybe he does not voice the thought which Melkor recognizes either way in the irregular patterns of his heartbeat; and all of a sudden everything is too much and he knows he will not be able to hold back, he will not be able to last, his body will break and his spirit will perish and oh, so good, it feels, it is-

'Yes,' Melkor groans and pushes him back, pins him to the ground and thrusts into him fast and hard and rough; his hands hold Eönwë down and his lips find Eönwë's neck, and then he is coming: wild and loud and beautiful, so beautiful, and Eönwë has no choice but to follow him into the sweet oblivion of release.

It takes a moment for him to gather himself back into a sentient being; in that moment he floats as though in the eternal space before time, bodiless, shapeless, thoughtless. Even there, he feels safe in the embrace of flames and underneath the blanket of darkness wrapped around him to protect him from all hurts. But the bliss cannot last forever and soon, Eönwë awakens from it to the sensation of grass and dirt digging into his backside and, more intolerably, into his wings. The stars shine bright in the skies far above when he opens his eyes, and Melkor's arms around his middle are warm like the air of a Summer night. The dark Vala is watching him, eyes now a bright blue colour not unlike a frosty morning.

'My wings are getting dirty,' Eönwë complains and marvels at how sleepy he sounds. Despite that, for the first time in so long, he does not feel tired but quite the opposite: energy thrums inside of him and urges him to run or to fly or both, to roam the land in a whirlwind of movement, to fall and to rise again, to chase the winds.

'I will help you clean them,' says Melkor, smiling lazily. 'What do you say? We shall take a long soak in the geothermal springs. I can wash your hair and your back, I can brush your feathers one by one.'

'Only if you let me brush your hair so that I have Mairon's envy when he returns,' Eönwë replies, smiling back.

'No,' Melkor says as his smile changes into a smirk.

Eönwë can play that game as well. 'As you say. In that case, you will let me have you instead,' he demands with more confidence than he thinks he should be feeling.

But Melkor does a bad job of hiding his excitement at the prospect. 'I was not aware you liked me that much,' the dark Vala jokes, but he cannot help the anticipation so evident in his aura. He licks his lips and Eönwë follows the motion with his eyes, resisting the urge to close the distance between them.

'Oh, you are passable,' he informs teasingly instead. 'Especially in bed. Outside of it, you are still insufferable.'

'How would you know? We never did it in a bed,' Melkor protests lightly and then smiles as Eönwë laughs.

They take that bath afterwards. Melkor is very careful with Eönwë's wings and cleans the feathers as if they were something fragile. Later, they do it on a bed. It is so much more than passable, but Eönwë does not admit it. The bruises he sucks into Melkor's skin remain where he leaves them, a visible reminder of the dark Vala's submission to Eönwë's passion. They are better than a verbal admission could be.

 

Thuringwethil is the first one who notices the new crown-shaped mark on Eönwë's shoulder. It is not exactly exposed, he never realized it would be visible when he dressed himself before the Council meeting, but he supposes the cut of the tunic might have not been the best choice. Of course, it is of no concern to anybody that he and his bonded lover's lover have formed a bond of their own to somewhat complete their irregular relationship; but he also had no intention of broadcasting it to everyone in the vicinity.

'You surprise me,' Thuringwethil tells him come break time during which Lords Manwë and Aulë take turns shouting at one another about things they cannot agree upon. She sounds unexpectedly more impressed than mocking.

'How so?' Eönwë asks, walking in a slow pace in the direction of the orchards.

She follows. 'When last we spoke, you were more ours than theirs,' the dark Maia says. 'You know. So ashamed of what you felt. So lost, confused. All you needed was a push and you would have broken into a thousand little evil pieces. But not now. I feel like if I push you now, you will push back and I will end up broken instead.'

'I have no intention of breaking anyone,' Eönwë promises, chuckling in good humour. 'Whether you like it or not, I am the commander of all Maiar. Dark Maiar are Maiar nonetheless. That means I am responsible for you.'

'Good luck with that,' Thuringwethil teases. 'I would sincerely pay precious metals and jewels to see you command us. We would rip you apart, birdie.'

'Your Lord is not capable of that,' Eönwë points out.

'Well, our Lord shares your bed,' Thuringwethil counters and stops walking when they reach the first fruit trees. 'Have you ever held a sword in your hands, fluffy birdie?'

Eönwë grins. 'Your Lord has a very impressive sword, if you know what I mean.'

The dark Maia stares at him, obviously stunned. Then, 'You really do surprise me,' she says and passes him a red apple. 'Well, Lord Commander, it seems like you will grow into something useful yet. How do you feel about some battle practice with our people? You can bring yours with you. I am certain they need it more than we do.'

'As soon as we are all finished with the Ship and the Beacon,' Eönwë promises. 'We do not want to pull anyone away from their work for too long.'

'Gothmog would fry me if I tried, he loves being a part of that crowd far too much,' mutters Thuringwethil and bites into an apple of her own.

 

The Ship sets sail and the Beacon rises into the sky. Mairon returns to them at night when Almaren celebrates the completion of a long labour. Between sleep and wakefulness, Eönwë senses his beloved, his oldest friend and wraps him in his arms. He feels Melkor's presence on Mairon's other side and he smiles to his dreams. Like this, he thinks contentedly and loses himself back into sleep.

Unconventional or not, sinful or not, with them he is whole: as he was always meant to be.

 

**Author's Note:**

> What do you mean nobody ships Aule/Manwe. I do. Isn't that enough.  
> (I will be writing explicit porn of them whether you people want it or not.)  
> Also if anyone thinks I'm leaving Melkor and Manwe as they are, you are extremely wrong. I WILL HAVE THEM RECONCILED IN THIS AU IF THIS IS THE LAST THING I EVER WRITE.


End file.
